Brushstrokes of Crimson
by Your Angel of Music
Summary: Red as a colour represents many things – Anger. Passion. Blood. It is a colour that taints Ianto's relationship with Jack, like brushstrokes of crimson irrevocably entwining their lives together. Experimental Jack/Ianto piece, mainly Ianto-centric.


**Title: Brushstrokes of Crimson**

**Word Count: 3244**

**Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto, past Ianto/Lisa, mentions of Gwen, Tosh and Owen.**

**Spoilers: Most notably Cyberwoman, Countrycide, Adam and Exit Wounds. But it'll be best understood by people who have seen, or are at least aware of, the entirety of the two series. **

**Warnings: I'm giving this an M rating just to be certain. It contains dark scenes and large amounts of angst, including frequent references to blood, violence and sex. (This is my first attempt at writing any kind of smut at all, so please forgive me if my attempts are embarrassingly shameful)**

**Summary: Red is a colour attributed to many things. Anger...Passion...Blood. It is a colour that taints Ianto's relationship with Jack, like brushstrokes of crimson irrevocably entwining their lives together.**

**A/N: This concept actually came to me whilst listening to Essex FM over a crumpet and a bowl of grapes; the song "Red" by Daniel Merriweather happened to come on the radio, and the lyrics, especially the chorus, sowed the seeds of this story in my mind. The plot bunny had burrowed its way into my consciousness, and I could not shake it. I've tried to be quite experimental with this, trying contrasting literary techniques and time frames, so I hope it actually works. **

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, Ianto Jones and Jack Harkness **_**are**_** property of RTD and the BBC, and not yours truly. If they were mine, do you really think I'd have the time or the inclination to come to a laptop and write this stuff down? (I'd be too busy playing with them *wink wink*)**

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**Brushstrokes of Crimson**

"_He who writes in __blood__ and aphorisms does not want to be read, he wants to be learned by heart._"

**Friedrich Nietzsche**

The wind circling in from the waters of Cardiff Bay bit unremittingly into the flesh of the few people scurrying along through their normal lives; like a freezing twine which wrapped itself around them, toying with them for a few brief moments before releasing them back into their own separate realities. For one moment, the small numbers of people struggling to make their way through their hum-drum lives were connected by a single goal – to fight a common nemesis which they did not even realise stood in their way.

Ianto Jones leant casually against the railings of the Bay, feeling the wind swirling around him, catching his clothes and hair playfully. He rubbed his hands together, ignoring the faint annoyance that the strong breeze stirred in him – the wind itself was timid with him, grudgingly conceding that bigger things had already succeeded in separating him from the so-so of ordinary human existence.

**

_The red stains seemed to seep into every crack, burrowing through the floor, the earth, deep into the very core of the world. His hands are red raw from scrubbing, lines scored into his flesh from his relentless grip on the hard, wooden brush he is using to try and rid the blood from the floor and from his eyes. _

_The scarlet trickles running down his wrist mingle with the etchings on the floor, his blood mixing with Lisa's – but he doesn't know whether it is Lisa's. The body of the pizza girl lay here alongside her, and he doesn't know where her blood ends and Lisa's begins. _

_Footsteps echo on the floor behind him...he hears a pistol cock...cold metal pressed to the back of his neck...but he does not stop scrubbing. Perhaps, if he can rid the floor of the stains, the crimson images forever scored into the back of his mind will go away. Maybe. Probably not. He doesn't know...he doesn't care._

_He feels the cold contact of the gun break away from his neck, feels the vibrations as heavy boots move around to face him, feels the cold stare boring into him before he even raises eyes to meet the grey-blue eyes of Jack Harkness._

_** _

He watched silently as the people around him struggled against the invisible ropes which attempted to hold them back, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. They had no idea that with each wrench away from the cold they were joined in their common goal – the fight for normality wrapped itself around the human race like a warm embrace, giving the comfort of joint purpose.

He blew on his hands, fighting the cold that suddenly tightened its grip. In a bid to expel the biting freeze which seeped into his veins, he looked up towards the roof of the Millennium Centre. He saw, but did not see, the dark blue coat billowing out from the shadowy figure stood astride on the majestic building. He knew that he wasn't truly there, but it was an image that was forever imprinted on Ianto's mind and could be conjured up by mere will – or appear of its own volition, uninvited but not altogether unwelcome.

**

_There is blood on his hands again, but he's not sure how it got there. He remembers vaguely...a figure striding uninvited through his door...shouting, accusation, hatred...blue eyes boring into his, not reflecting the anger bubbling through his own veins, forcing the tears out of his eyes...a hint of compassion,__ compassion?_

_And he'd been meaning to get a drink, of water, or juice, or whisky, or __something__, but somehow his fingers had curled inwards, drawing into a tight fist...the crystal had splintered in a split second, spreading out like bacteria across the room and into his flesh. _

_There are hands on his, gentle fingers probing the glass from his skin as he stares, his hands trembling silently. It should hurt like hell as the glass is prised from his flesh, but he can't feel it – he should be pleasantly numb, but he's not – the lack of feeling in him terrifies him, makes him wonder what he has become. _

_Then he raises his head just a fraction, meeting those sky-blue eyes that had once looked at him with such coldness as to freeze the blood in his veins._

_And suddenly he feels very hungry._

**

Ianto had left his gloves back on his workstation, sitting idly and neglected by the half-empty coffee mug. No matter how he chafed his hands, the cold persisted in wriggling its way into the marrow of his bones. In one last attempt, he buried his hands in his pockets, drawing his coat further around him like a protective shield. Embarrassingly, it is slightly reminiscent of a younger him, burying into the warmth of his mother's cardigan – but the only thing bothering him at that precise moment was the prospect of warmth, so he really didn't care

.**

_The fingers gripping his waist are leaving deep purple marks in his flesh. He can feel the blood rising to the pressure, building up just below the surface of his skin. The pain ricocheting through the injuries in his ribs streamlines its way into some unknown spot in his brain, delighting in the wonder of feeling. _

_How they even made it to the small room below Jack's office, he really doesn't know – he recalls the frenzy, devouring each other as if they were drowning and the other their only source of oxygen. The wall was hard against his back as he gripped the front of Jack's shirt, his nails digging through the soft fabric in an animalistic need to feel skin beneath his fingertips. _

_And it hurts. God it hurts. But he remembers the leering faces, the feel of his pulse reverberating through the cold metal of the knife, and he wants __more__ of __this__. He's a coward, he's accepted that, and he doesn't want to die – the cold numbness that has been slowly killing him flees from the confines of his brain, every fibre of his body filling with the electric sense of movement, near him, with him, within him_.

_His nails are scratching at bare skin, drawing blood from Jack's back – he can feel the heat of it on his fingertips, feel the throbbing warmth pulsating throughout Jack's veins as he surges forward, relentless in his attack of Ianto's body, of his senses, of his sensibilties. _

_He knows his body and his mind are not his own any more. He doesn't care – Jack can have him._

_**_

Ianto moved away slowly from the railing, watching the silent swell of the sea one last time before turning his back on the unpredictable serenity of the dark water and towards the deceptive calm of the water tower. His feet began to move towards it, a path so well trodden that he cast a quick look downwards to confirm whether or not his footsteps were bored deep into the pavement. A smile quirked at the side of his mouth, and he looked up, watching the moonlight ripple from the length of the tower as he approached it.

Usually he would head for the tourist office, take a moment of warm peace in the small area that was recognised as solely his, before entering the exciting, dangerous, wonderful world the resided in the underbelly of Cardiff. But now, as he settled himself onto the invisible lift, he craved the gentle, effortless descent, akin to flying, that the contraption would bring him.

**

_His teeth sink into the soft flesh of Jack's lips, the blood flowing into his mouth, the metallic taste hitting his taste-buds and almost sending him into a frenzy of need. But he holds it back – the taste of life in his mouth igniting something far deeper than lust. _

_Losing Jack was nothing compared to losing Lisa – Lisa had been the shining light that kept him smiling, and losing her had destroyed him to his very core – but even so, he had felt something twist within him as the cold void left by Jack had had grown colder with time. He had missed the feeling of the blood coursing through Jack's veins as he gripped his flesh, the pulse in his neck thrumming eternally beneath his skin – there was something so __alive__ about Jack. _

_He pins Jack against the soft material of the bed – his mouth hovering ever so closely above Jack's, the copper tang of the blood on Jack's lips swirling into his mouth and nose, a heady, intoxicating feeling gripping his senses. It's Jack who closes the gap, catching Ianto's lips between his teeth, slicing the skin ever so gently – their blood mingles together – Ianto feels a surge go through him – it's something primal, vampiric almost in its intensity._

_And perhaps, something a little bit more. _

_**_

As the lift descended, Ianto removed his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together , creating a gentle friction that warmed the skin of his hands. As the interior of the Hub filled his sights, his mind remained outside of it, separated from the unreality of his reality. He wondered, idly, whether he'd ever really forgiven Jack or if Jack had ever truly forgiven him. Somewhere, buried in his mind, he knew that he would never accept Jack's forgiveness, as Jack would never be able to accept his – neither of them were deserving of the other's forgiveness, and perhaps, because of that, they deserved each other.

**

_He can feel it now – the pulses beneath his hands as he squeezed tighter, increasing rapidly as realisation dawned on them and then slowing as that realisation became manifest. That tantalising sensation of the blood stopping beneath his fingers, the knowledge that that blood is under his control – Oh God. _

_Jack's holding him, comforting – he can feel the vibrations of his words, whispered softly against the skin of his cheek. It's all just words – I know you, it wasn't you, you wouldn't do it – and Ianto __knows__. The physical memory is nothing compared to the recollection of the feeling that jolted through his synapses as he controlled the life of the girl beneath his fingertips. How could he know that unless it was real? Oh God, no, please, I don't want to be this._

_He feels a soft pressure on his lips, fingers combing through his hair, gently drawing him back. Ianto clings to him, desperately holding on to Jack's own belief in him. He can feel Jack's pulse against his mouth as he presses his body against Jack, and a wave of fear surges through him – he remembers the emotions that the girl's pulse brought him – and he wrenches himself away roughly._

_The notion that he could feel that with Jack – the man whose pulse he would once have given anything to feel slow beneath his hands - it terrifies him._

_**_

The jolt of the lift touching down shocked Ianto back from his thoughts, and he caught himself in time to stop himself tumbling from the lift. Casting a look towards Jack's office, he saw the figure within stop its activity as his presence was recognised. Those eyes flicked upwards, meeting his – Ianto knew that single look would always ensnare him, and he smiled resignedly, taking a step towards the office.

**

_Tosh's blood is cold on the tiled floor of the autopsy room, but the warmth seems to circulate upwards towards him, the life that once sang through it escaping the onward marching cold. Ianto's movements are slow, not the hurried scrubbing that he recalled from the night of Lisa's death. His hands are stained crimson, the dark red droplets catching under his fingernails – he doesn't know whether he'll ever be able to truly rid himself of the blood that seems to cling to every molecule of his being. Ever since Canary Wharf, pulling Lisa, broken and bleeding from that monstrosity, the pores of his skin had been forever tainted with the deep crimson of blood. _

_A hand rests on his shoulder, a figure crouching down beside him, whispering into his ear. He wants him to stop cleaning, that's enough – but Ianto just wants rid of the blood. The blood isn't Tosh – it's a cruel, patronising reminder of the fragile life that so easily escaped from her. The whispering stops and hands wrench his wrists away from the floor, stopping his activities forcibly – Ianto's not even fighting, he doesn't have the energy. _

_And then they're wrapped together, back's against the wall of autopsy room, neither knowing or caring where one of them ends or the other begins. The blood on the floor seeps into their clothes, pooling beneath them as they don't even have the strength, nor the inclination, to move away from the grisly reminder of what they've lost. Again, Ianto can feel and hear the singing of the blood in Jack's veins, that eternal song proclaiming that this was one person whose heart would never stop beating – he was the one person Ianto knows he can never lose – Lisa, Tosh, Owen - eventually, his surrogate family will all be eradicated, either before or after the the life in his own veins is stilled. _

_Ianto fears death – the death off those around him and his own death. Jack will never die, and Ianto knows that Jack will never forget – he can never die, as long as something of him remains in the flow of the blood in Jack's veins_

_**_

"I thought I told you to go home," Jack did not stop rearranging the hordes of clutter on his desk as Ianto nudged the door of his office open with his shoulder, but his eyes caught Ianto's own and did not return to the task at hand. Ianto felt the muscles at the corner of his mouth twitch into a wry smile as he shrugged off his jacket and let it drop haphazardly into the corner of the room.

"No, you told Gwen to go home," he said stoically, perching easily on the corner of Jack's desk as the Captain leant back heavily into his chair. "Unless I'm misinterpreting your signals, which I severely doubt, waving a hand in the general direction of the workstations and shouting 'Home!' is generally interpreted as 'Gwen home, Ianto stays'."

"And here was I thinking I was so mysterious."

The real truth passed silently between them, hanging easily in the air – they both knew that Ianto hadn't really had a home to go back to for a very long time, and although they would never voice it, it was a fact they both willingly acknowledged.

Jack stood up, his chair scraping along the hard material of the floor as he reached towards the small wooden cabinet that hung indiscriminately in the corner of the room. Jack's office was hardly big enough to swing a cat in, a phrase that Ianto remembered from childhood, when his dad was still alive; Ianto had often wondered how such a small room could contain all the memories, all the experience, all the ego of Captain Jack Harkness. Still, he had to concede that there were obvious advantages to always having a wall close at hand, especially following a particularly stressful (therefore, Torchwood being Torchwood, relatively normal) day.

The clatter of glasses hitting the wooden desktop broke his reverie, and he looked down to see Jack placing a bottle and two glasses on top of a particularly unintelligible pile of notes. He raised an eyebrow playfully.

"Are you trying to get me drunk, sir?"

Jack leaned in close, his voice so low that Ianto felt himself inching forward towards him, his heart beat slightly more erratic than it had been just a moment before.

"Do you really think I couldn't have you anyway?"

Ianto felt that oh-so-familiar hunger stirring in the pit of his stomach, and he struggled to keep the fire coursing through his veins hidden behind his mask of sincerity. The urge to move forward and close the gap between them made every nerve itch with anticipation, but he kept each muscle in his body slightly tensed – a trick he'd perfected over the months.

Suddenly Jack pulled away, shrugging nonchalantly (the ability to pull away from a tense situation so easily, whilst leaving everyone else a gibbering wreck, was something which Ianto had always despised about the man). He swiftly removed the cork from the bottle, winking at Ianto's uncertain mixture of exasperation and need.

"Dinner and a movie, remember?" he grinned. "Except without the movie."

"Or any dinner," Ianto pointed out, edging around the desk so he was sitting directly in front of Jack, his knee brushing ever so slightly against the edge of Jack's thigh. "You really need to work on your romantic schpeel."

"Hey, my schpeel is legendary!" Jack clutched at his heart, feigning mortification at Ianto's insinuation of at his lack of romantic prowess. He leaned forward quickly, moving his whole body almost unbearably close to Ianto's, but instead of furthering their contact he lifted the glasses from the tabletop and poured one for himself and one for Ianto.

"I mean, honestly," he smiled, taking a sip before clinking his glass against Ianto's.

"Is there really anything more romantic than a glass of red wine?"

**

_Red as a colour represents many things – Anger. Passion. Blood. _

_As Ianto leans against the railing of Cardiff Bay, he realises that the colour red is inextricably entwined in his relationship with Jack – it's entangled, forever interwoven into ever sentence, every look, ever touch that passes between them. From that very first encounter – the blood seeping from Jack's neck and trickling down Ianto's cheek – blood has been an accepted truth between them. It's evident in everything, he realises as he chafes his hands together to ward off the cold. Blood forced them together and will force them apart – the feel of the blood in Jack's veins, singing the song of eternity against his own, is something which Ianto craves like a drug – he is addicted and he does not want to let go of the euphoria he feels every time he feels the pulse beneath Jack's skin. _

_As he pulls away from the railing and moves towards the water tower, he can see his life mapped out before him, an abstract portrait of birth, life and death, the linear line intersected with brushtrokes of crimson interlinking his life with Jack's. The anger and passion between them has formed a connection that he could not fracture, the deep crimson reality seeping into his heart and imprinting Jack forever onto his soul. _

_There's no point in fighting it – he doesn't want to fight it. He has opened his heart to Jack, offered it to him on a plate; every single drop of blood in his veins sings out for him, overpowering any objections offered by his brain. _

_He does love him. With every fibre in his body. He supposes it was inevitable – he's never really had the capacity to love anything other than passionately. _

_And so, smiling, he steps onto the invisible lift, towards that inevitability. _

And I'm alright  
Standing in the streetlights here  
Is this meant for me  
My time on the outside is over  
We don't know how you're spending all of your days  
Knowing that love isn't here  
You see the pictures  
But you don't know their names  
Cause love isn't here

And I can't do this by myself  
All of these problems, they're all in your head  
And I can't be somebody else  
You took something perfect  
And painted it red

No sympathy  
When shouting out is all you know  
Behind your lies  
I can see the secrets you don't show  
We don't know how you're spending  
All of your days  
Knowing that love isn't here  
You see the pictures  
But you don't know their names  
Cause love isn't here

And I can't do this by myself  
All of these problems, they're all in your head  
And I can't be somebody else  
You took something perfect  
And painted it red  
When you took something perfect  
And painted it red

You take the best things from  
Then everything gets empty  
That's not a world that I need  
Ooh, you take the best things from me  
Then everything gets empty  
That's not a world that I need

And I can't do this by myself  
All of these problems, they're all in your head  
And I can't be somebody else  
You took something perfect  
And painted it red

When you took something perfect  
And painted it red  
You took something perfect  
And painted it **red**

**"Red" by Daniel Merriweather**

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A/N: The phrase "unreality of reality" and the notion of Jack speaking quietly in order to entice people closer were actually first coined by F. Scott Fitzgerald in the novel "The Great Gatsby". I'm very certain that Jack would be aware of this novel, and would no doubt have pilfered a few seduction techniques from the indomitable Daisy Buchanan.

Constructive criticism is always welcomed by open arms!


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